


What's Set In Stone

by sharpshoes



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-10 08:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17422013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharpshoes/pseuds/sharpshoes
Summary: The Inquisitor returns to a once again abandoned Skyhold after a long absence.





	1. The Return

How long had it been? Five years, nearly six. And his heart rose in his chest despite himself, despite his efforts to quash the hope he felt now, facing Skyhold once again. With the Inquisition disbanded it had once again succumbed to disuse- there had been brief plans to set it up as a trading post, and bids from both Orlais and Ferelden to claim it as a military outpost, or as a historical site, but neither were invested enough to fight for it. It was a beautiful building, and well built, but too inconvenient a location for contemporary needs. It was to Coen and to those who had lived there a hideout, somewhere that seemed almost to exist independently to the rest of Thedas, distinct even from the rest of time. Walking in the Inquisitor, who was no longer truly an Inquisitor (though he never managed to shake the title), half expected to find the place bustling, alive with the sounds of clashing metal and carts hauling stone. But there was no one except himself and those he had come with. His friends from the days of the Inquisition had long since moved on, though he and his advisors still sought Solas, to little avail. When he had last seen him those years ago, amid a small army of stone Qunari and done up like an old God, he had told him there would be a culling. And the Inquisitor, then still truly an inquisitor, had promised to stop him, to make him see sense. 

And then nothing.

For five years, nearly six, nothing. 

It was maddening. He had waited in baited breath, readying himself for some cataclysmic event, expecting disaster. If he was honest, he had almost hoped for it. Anything to renew that lost sense of purpose. How to go from being so needed, so respected, to this? Down one arm and relegated mostly to ceremonial and bureaucratic duties. It was nearly enough to kill him. But here again was hope, stronger now than it had been in years. To see them again... Varric, Cassandra. He tried not to think about seeing Dorian. It didn’t bear thinking about. 

But Varric and Cassandra he could take heart in, if only for a short while. 

The rest of his party, frozen and exhausted, camped out in the old tavern. There had been some talk about finding old liquor stores, but Coen believed this to be thoroughly untrue. No Ferelden worth their salt would abandon good liquor. Or even serviceable liquor. 

By their communications, Varric and Cassandra would arrive shortly, most likely the next day. Despite their near-constant bickering they seemed to travel together often. Dorian had had his suspicions. 

“You know, I think they just argue as an excuse to talk. It’s cute really. Poor Cassandra wouldn’t know affection if it hit her on the head.” 

“You know Varric insists-” 

“Varric could lie for Thedas. Trust me, darling, I have an eye for these things.” 

Ridiculous. But what he wouldn’t give to be ridiculous again! The bureaucratic types he hung around with these days had little sense of humour. It was a terrible way to live, really. Somewhere in Minrathous, was Dorian feeling this same disconnect? From his communications, now dated, he had been mired in the same bureaucratic drudgery as Coen. But now, who knew. Perhaps he had found new friends, new family. Somebody else. 

Once he had walked through the end of days on bravado alone. But bravado could not exist in a vacuum, it was against every tenet of nature, probably. Coen tried to resist the temptation to dwell. It was a sort of indulgent misery, he knew. There was a kind of satisfaction in it. He would keep himself looking jovial until he was at least out of sight of his entourage. Most of the people he hardly knew, a couple were friends. He had recently become close to a gigantic, red-haired human named Garth who hardly spoke at all. It was a strange kind of friendship, but they kept each other company. Being friends with Garth felt like being friends with an ascetic monk, although Garth had only ever descried himself to Coen as a “hired hand”. This title seemed to encompass almost everything. Garth built things, carried things, protected things, fought things. He didn’t seem to care much what he was doing. Or rather, he never seemed to complain. As much as he liked Garth, Coen yearned for someone who would complain, who would joke and bicker and bother. Garth and him were together in contemplation and restraint, but Coen wanted again to be excess and brash and crazed again. 

Oh well. This was the sort of thing that happened as one aged. One had to take solace in what one had. He guessed. It really did feel unbearably dull. 

Dorian would have a lot to say about Garth. He was interested in people. 

Coen knew he should move on, stop thinking about him. But it was that pain again, that addictive sadness. It was worse to have nothing to think about than to think about heartbreak. And truly, wasn’t he lucky to have met him? Even if nothing ever happened to him again, there would always be something to dream about. He had inured himself to a lifetime of pallid mediocrity, accepted that he would dwell now mostly in memories and in fantasies. It was a grim fate, certainly, but not such an uncommon one. 

But there again was hope, chasing away all his resolve and his better sense. 

He had peeled off from the main group and made his way towards the stronghold’s entrance. Already his legs wobbled, threatening to freeze him in his tracks. The weight of his memories threatened to overwhelm him, but he pressed forwards. He felt almost ghostly, as though he was walking through a past life. It was not dissimilar to the feeling one had walking through a graveyard. It seemed as though the very stone of Skyhold had preserved echoes of the people that had once lived there, as though the time he had lost was buried somewhere in the rock, preserved but inaccessible to him. He had worked himself up. Rocks did not hold secrets. Then again, he supposed if you believed the dwarves, rocks could hold a great many things. Memories, past lives. But Coen had never really settled on the matter of spirituality, elven or otherwise. He got the impression he was looking at only pieces of things, that there was more to be known than any one creature could hope to know. The fade, for example. Revelation upon revelation had come to him about the fade, but still he felt it’s true nature eluded him. If the fade had once been one with the world, what had the world looked like? How had it behaved? Surely there hadn’t been any upside-down staircases, or ghosts parading the streets? Perhaps if he were a mage, he would have a firmer grasp on these things. But perhaps not. 

He didn’t know where he was walking until he found himself there. The door that led up to his chambers. His legs felt as though they were made of iron. He took the first set of stairs, and standing on the ledge that led to his old room, stood stock still, either unable or unwilling to move. It looked the same. No one had ever cleared that walkway- the fallen stone and debris had been there since the Inquisition days. He closed his eyes, and imagined. If he stood still enough, wanted it bad enough, could he will back time? Would he simply open his eyes and find himself here again, two arms intact, waiting to face Corypheus? There were things he would have done differently. Solas. Dorian.  
But he opened his eyes, and he knew from the silence and the cold and the dust that he was still in the same time he had been when he’d closed them. The only other timeline he’d ever be in was the one he’d already visited when he’d first met Dorian. And what an impression he had made- walking through that accursed world with determination and aplomb. Coen had liked him instantly. 

At least he was glad to never see that again. His friends, left with only their thoughts and the sickly sweet song of red lyrium. Leliana, tortured. Her face seemed to have aged somehow, although it had been only a year. Her eyes. It wasn’t right. 

If they ever found Solas, he wondered what his apocalypse would look like. Red lyrium and demons were not his style. Armies rolling like a wave over the mountains? A great plague? 

Dorian had predicted bees. Maybe it would be bees. 

...

Coen wasn’t sure exactly how long he’d been standing there, but it must have been long enough. He was beginning to feel quite stiff. Gingerly, as though he suspected the scaffolding might give out underneath him, he took the next set of stairs up to his old bedroom. He was conscious now of how cold he was; his toes were starting to numb. There was still a few logs of wood stacked by the fireplace, and sparse kindling. It was arguably not especially sensible to start a fire here, the wood might be put to better use in the tavern with the others, but he felt sure they could scavenge enough for themselves. He wouldn’t mind staying up here a while longer. 

The wood was a bit damp, and the fire took a while starting, but once it began to burn the room warmed quickly. 

Sitting by the fire, the thawing sensation in his fingers, feet, and thighs reminded him of the Inquisition’s escape from a burning Haven. He remembered waking up alone, knowing that he needed to find his company, knowing that the cold would kill him if he didn’t. 

He stumbled forwards through the snow, head feeling foggier and heavier by the minute. It took all his strength not to collapse and succumb to the cold. There were worse deaths. If what they said was true, it was imperative that he stay alive, lest the world be swallowed into a big green abyss. This did not seem especially real at the moment. To think that the whole of Thedas depended on his staying alive seemed like poor planning on behalf of any higher power. People die all the time, whether it be of disease, blight, war or famine. Or cold. How many others had met their fate on this mountain, whichever damned mountain it was? If he were to fall now, they might never find him. At the rate the snow was falling, he’d be covered within the hour. 

Black was spotting the edges of his vision. He was numbly aware of the urgency of his situation, but knew he could go no faster. And what was to say he was going anywhere? The snow obfuscated everything; Coen had the impression he had wandered into another world entirely. He could no longer feel his legs, and his fingers were taking on a purplish colour. The right little finger was especially worrying. Were he to survive, it might need to come off. 

Through the snowstorm, the light of the campfire was nothing more than a hazy orange-coloured blur, but it was enough to catch his eye. Fenedhis, let that be real, or let him die now. His wooden limbs took him only far enough to see someone point at him and shout, and knowing he had been spotted, he collapsed. 

He drifted in and out of consciousness. People were crowding around, yelling. They had brought him into a tent. Someone was bent over him. A perfectly bald head. Solas. Did he grow hair? Could he? It would be impossible to ask. His skin burned as it began to thaw, and he shuddered violently. Magic washed over him in waves of relief. The pain was strong, but not enough to keep him awake. 

A while later. There were other faces in the tent. Cassandra, staring at him with burning intensity, her chin resting on her hands, together in prayer. Solas, hands hovering over him, eyes closed. 

And Dorian. He was maintaining a fireball with some obvious concentration, presumably struggling to keep it contained enough to not burn down their tent. Meeting Coen’s eyes with a start, the fireball flared and then shrank. 

“Oh hello. You’re alive”  
He couldn’t seem to say anything. He was alive. This struck him as both very pleasant and mildly shocking.  
“And, if it pleases you to know, in possession of all your extremities. Lucky, that.”  
Despite his violent shuddering, he smiled. That was lucky. Borderline miraculous. Perhaps he ought to have stronger faith in his Gods. His unlikely survival flooded him with elation. He felt as though he was walking on air, untouchable, impervious. He flexed his fingers and toes experimentally, pleased to see that they were still in working order and mostly sensible. Oh, happy day. 

Dorian began to say something else, but Cassandra shushed him before he could get a word out. 

“He needs to sleep.”  
Dorian nodded.  
“Well alright.” He turned to Coen. “Later I’ll regale you with tales of our marvelous escape. Which was perhaps more of a ‘perilous and pitiful’ escape, but that is not how I intend to tell it.” He smiled conspiratorially. “But for now the seeker looks as though she intends to lop my head off. So it will have to wait.”  
“Pity.” Said Coen. It came out somewhat warped; his tongue felt heavy. How long had he been asleep? Dorian looked especially handsome in the firelight. It would have been romantic were it not for everybody else in the room. Dorian had leaned back down toward the back of the tent and was feeding more energy into his fireball. Cassandra watched them intently, her expression characteristically unreadable. Despite her initial distrust of him he found he liked her immensely. There was something endearing in how serious she was, how passionate. It read as adorable, although she would doubtlessly flay him if he said such a thing. 

Solas was still bent over him, greenish magic emanating from his fingertips. He had nearly forgotten he was there at all. 

He felt giddy. His thoughts flitted about excitedly in his head awhile before he caved, falling back into a deep and dreamless sleep.


	2. A Grim Reunion

Coen woke again in front of the fireplace in Skyhold. He hadn’t remembered deciding to sleep. It was nearly dark now, and the fire was reduced to embers. He thought he should go look for his party, although it was possible they had already turned in. If no one had found anything to drink, there wasn’t much to be up for. He resolved to check the cellars for any of the old bottles he’d stashed, some acquired from corners of Thedas so remote that if they had not been found by the Inquisition, they might have sat unopened for centuries. Over the years the Inquisition was active he’d amassed a dragon’s hoard of trinkets, baubles and antique weaponry. He’d had to leave a lot of it behind when he first left for Kirkwall, and more again when he moved to Val Royeaux. The ravages of time. Coen sighed and ran his fingers over his face. He’d been wallowing for far too long; it felt borderline indecent. He twisted and stretched his back and legs. Daylight was wasting outside, and he had to check things were in order with his company. 

Luck was with him that night. Seemingly, the closet he’d chosen for his collection was small and dusty enough to be overlooked by any opportunistic staff or visitors. He retrieved an old Orlesian mead, a bottle of something appearing to be red wine whose label claimed itself, in careful ornate script, to be property of the Order of the Grey Wardens (he doubted they would mind), and an opaque green bottle lacking any manner of label, which was especially promising. There was also three bottles of Tevinter malt whiskey and an elvish white wine, but Coen, unthinking, moved those out of view. There might be another occasion, and it would doubtless be unwise to blow everything on one night. It was not hope, he would not be a victim of hope. 

...

Dorian woke, wishing very much that he hadn’t. He was hazy with fever, every muscle sore from the shivering. He wondered how long this was likely to last. Maevaris, slumped in the corner across from him, looked to be in a similar state. They had surpassed anger. Now there was only time left for dreams. He wondered what she was thinking of now. Her children, likely, or her late husband. Did she regret joining him and the Lucerni? No, not likely. She had more hatred for the Venatori than Dorian could aspire to. 

He had often wondered why, of all things, they had decided to keep them alive. And for such time! Was it a sadistic sort of pleasure, to see them rot in their cells, or did they hope for a hefty ransom? If there were any soul desperate or stupid enough to pay for either of them, surely they would have shown themselves by now? It was no matter. Whether at the end of a blade or from fever, there could not be long left now. He closed his eyes, knowing he would not find sleep, but hoping at least for a good daydream. Where was Coen now, he wondered? Last he had known, Val Royeaux. Once the crystals had expired (Despite all Dorian’s efforts to recharge the bloody thing, it was a lost cause without both crystals. It was an especially rare class of magic, and he knew of no mages in Orlais who had the ability. He was exceedingly fortunate to have found the right literature himself.), contact between him and the Inquisitor had dwindled. Letters were lost, or intercepted, or delayed, and eventually he began to fear Coen had lost interest. It had been a long time since they had seen one another. Stuck where he was, dying, he felt exceptionally stupid. He should have fought. He should have left for Orlais, Magisterium and bloody Venatori be damned. But there was no fixing things now. The damned idiocy of it all. After countless demons, two supposed Gods, and more than his fair share of damned dragons,   
to die alone in a cell of the fever. Well, not truly alone. But who was it that said ‘every one of us will die alone’? They were right. He felt suddenly very nauseous and lost his breakfast- a purely metaphoric breakfast, it had been some time since either him or Maevaris had eaten, or for that matter, felt hungry- in one of the unoccupied corners of the cell. Oh, joy. He had thought things could not get any worse, but now the air smelled of vomit. 

...

The air smelled of vomit. Whatever had been in the unlabelled bottle had been strong, and quite possibly toxic. Everyone seemed more or less in fighting shape, however, so he counted the night as a success. He woke on the uppermost floor of the tavern, having collapsed where Cole could once usually be found, if anyone remembered to find him. Coen had the impulse to crawl back to his old room, although there wasn’t much reason to. They had made away with the bed. What on earth had happened to Cole, he wondered? Even at his most human, he remained somewhat elusive. Varric must know. He and Cassandra were slated to arrive before the sun set. 

He should prepare rooms for them, there must still be blankets and bedding to be found somewhere in Skyhold. And they would have had a long journey. Varric was still, as he put it, “holed up in Kirkwall”, and Cassandra had had business all across Thedas, but last he heard had been in Denerim. He was anxious to see them. Would it be obvious, just how miserable he had become, would they pity him? He wouldn’t be able to fool Varric, the dwarf had an uncanny ability to weasel the truth out of him.

He could not remember how he had got to the top floor of the tavern, or much at all before that, but either himself or one of his companions had had the wherewithal to cover him with a blanket. Coming to his senses, he realized he was gasping of thirst and would soon be in desperate need of the privy. Fenedhis, it was nice to know, at least, that he could still make decisions this terrible. He’d almost believe he had not lived the past five years, had it not been for his awfully sore back and the conspicuous absence of his left arm.

He could hear Garth and the others shouting and cursing below him. The sun was high in the sky already; he had slept late. This was a habit of his. Dorian had joked that travelling took double the time with him because they’d only ever have half the day. 

Coen propped himself up on his remaining arm and laboured to his feet, feeling the vestiges of drunkenness that had yet to leave him. He felt in his bones that it would be a long day. 

... 

Dorian was debating whether or not he was in the throes of delusion. Solas’s face continued to move in front of him, and he could not be sure what he was seeing was real. It felt quite real, but wasn’t that the nature of delusion? If Solas was real, and not some deranged fragment of Dorian’s imagination, whatever he was saying was lost on him. His ears felt blurry. Did that follow? Probably not. He was hard pressed to care.

In a gesture that recalled something religious, Solas put his hand on Dorian’s head and he immediately fell unconscious. 

...

When Varric and Cassandra arrived, Coen was leaning over the battlements, weak with persistent hangover. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The fresh air, at least, was doing him some good. Seeing Varric’s small form he felt a twinge of excitement. He would undoubtedly have stories to regale him with, and jokes to crack. He leapt down the stairs back into the main hall and brushed down his tunic. He felt strangely nervous. 

His good mood lasted only a matter of seconds. On the steps outside he could see Cassandra and Varric’s faces, and knew immediately something was wrong. 

“Inquisitor” Started Cassandra. Always so formal. He would correct her, but now didn’t seem like the time. “We’ve only just heard”.   
“Bad news?” He asked. “It looks like bad news.” Could it be? Had Solas finally resurfaced? Was he wreaking hell upon some poor city? He suppressed another wave of nausea. Varric hadn’t spoken yet, which was especially uncharacteristic of him.   
“Divine Justinia’s agents have had some success.” Continued Cassandra. “Solas has been spotted in Minrathous.”  
Coen felt his heart drop. “Dorian?”  
“I..” Started Cassandra. Seeing her falter, Varric spoke in her stead. “No one’s heard from him in weeks. Our people have been looking, but he’s not anywhere he should be. One of the Lucerni leaders, Maeveris, has gone missing too. Naturally, the first thought was Venatori, but now..”   
Coen spoke. “It’s a trap. Solas wanted to be found.”  
“Almost certainly.” Said Cassandra.   
“It could be dangerous. You both have responsibilities. It’s probably best I go alone.”  
Varric sighed. “You didn’t really think that would work, did you?”   
“I mean it Varric. No one wants to spend eternity as a garden ornament.” He cracked a grim sort of smile.   
“I can think of worse ways to go.”   
“And I will see this through if it kills me.” Said Cassandra, impassioned. “Solas has worn my patience thin. I would sooner face my death now than have it sneak up on me later.” 

There wasn’t much else to say. Tomorrow they would send the appropriate letters and arrange for guides, and the next day, they would leave for Minrathous.


	3. Is That All There Is?

The next morning, Coen woke early, too anxious to have had a proper sleep. His mind was swimming with possibilities. Dorian could already be dead. The thought made him feel blank, like he couldn’t move. It occurred to him with some embarrassment that the thought of seeing him again was what had kept him going for a long time. When the letters stopped he thought he would die, but he didn’t. Life went on, only less vibrant than before. With Dorian dead, would he be reduced to a ghost- to some near-transparent creature, a mere shadow of what he once was? It was terribly dramatic and more than a bit pathetic. Coen couldn’t help falling hard. It wasn’t in his nature to be judicious about these things. 

But then again, if Solas wanted to find him, why kill the bait? What on earth would be the point? And on that note, why did Solas want to find him at all? He didn’t imagine he posed much of a threat at the moment. Perhaps he meant to kill him symbolically- the Inquisition, however contentious, had been a force to counter the devilish ambitions of Gods, and the death of it’s once-leader would be read as a bad omen. 

Maybe Solas wanted redemption, although Coen doubted this. Solas sought to purify a corrupt Thedas by excising everyone in it. He wasn’t the first to hold this belief, and would not be the last. That sort of twisted ambition wasn’t likely to fade on it’s own. Then again, time had changed things he’d once thought immutable. There was no telling what might happen, really. 

Regardless of his intentions, Coen was sure that Solas would want to monologue. He almost always did. He had sat through his fair share of fade-related speeches in quiet agony. It was a marvel to him that Solas had apparently garnered an army, seeing as he didn’t have much in the way of charisma.

What would Dorian have to say, he wondered? Undoubtedly some snappy witticism that would set Solas’s teeth on edge. Dorian had a thing for pointing out logical fallacies. Maybe he would manage to talk Solas down all on his own. It would be a minor miracle. 

... 

It was decided that the quickest route to the Imperium would be a day’s sail over the Waking Sea to Val Royeaux, followed by a long trek towards the city of Nevarra, where they could resupply as needed, than up through the Silent Plains and along the Imperial Highway towards Minrathous. It would be a little less than a fortnight, if they made good time. 

Coen was familiar enough with the route. It was a considerable trip to make, but he had been to Minrathous on a few occasions to visit Dorian. It was a beautiful city, the spires of it’s ornate churches rising into the low-hanging mist of the Nocen Sea. Dorian had once given him an enthused tour of the city, leading him through century old bathhouses with intricate frescoes of sea monsters and ancient heroes, market stalls busier and more colourful than any in Orlais and Ferelden, and cathedrals whose magnificent vaulted ceilings strove to touch the Gods themselves. He’d considered moving there before things had gone awry with Dorian, but it was a questionable idea under any circumstances, given the Imperium’s generally awful attitude towards elves and the lower strata of society. 

He didn’t debate Cassandra’s plan of action, trusting her implicitly. She had sent word to Josephine and Leliana (whom Cassandra continued to address exclusively as ‘Divine Victoria’), and had requested that Josephine handle their public image and the involvement of other ‘concerned parties’. Probably this would amount to The Iron Bull and his Chargers, along with Vivienne and Cullen. Everyone else was more or less spread to the wind. It seemed briefly as though the Inquisition was reinvigorated, a sense that might have been heartening to Coen had his most beloved not been in mortal danger. Coen had never quite worked out his opinions on predestination- once he had disbelieved it on principle, but after that fateful (it was possibly twee to call it fateful, but there was really no other word) day at the Haven Chantry, it seemed he had more reason to believe in fate than anyone else. Otherwise, he had exceptionally good luck. If there were such things as fates, however, perhaps they had moved on with their intentions. It seemed as though a great many lives were lived in senseless misery, and why shouldn’t his be among those? It was as if he had stumbled into the gaze of the Gods, and then had stumbled out. 

But he didn’t really believe that, did he? 

And if there were any Gods, what were their intentions now? 

It was another thing that didn’t bear thinking about. 

... 

 

Dorian felt incredible. By the ministrations of either Solas himself or one of his mage acolytes, he had been brought back to fighting shape. It was, of course, impossible to actually fight anything, being that he was bound by several mana-blocking wards and magical barriers. Even if he were to somehow circumvent the barriers, he would have to muscle his way through a small army of radicalized or misled elves and several locked doors. It wasn’t looking good.

Dorian had been assured by an acne-spotted elven boy that Maevaris had been restored to full health and been released. He had told him that she was instructed to send word to the Inquisitor. At least Solas gave him enough credit to know that he would already have guessed his intentions. Dorian was to be used as bait. 

There was a small, very ridiculous, part of him that was hoping Coen would sneak into wherever it was exactly he was being held and rescue him from the clutches of evil. In his fantasy, they would either a) plow through their enemies and emerge victorious, Solas impaled at the end of his staff, or b) surreptitiously execute guards as necessary and escape without ever incurring Solas’s wrath, admitting their undying love for one another and living to embark on another long crusade against evil. The latter was somewhat more realistic and tailored to Coen’s personal brand of attack, so it made a more entrancing fiction. 

Endlessly more likely, however, was that Coen would either not come at all, or would come and be killed. Granted, he had survived impossible odds before, but Solas had already demonstrated the breadth of his power, and at the moment held all the cards. However if he’d gone to such lengths to attract Coen, Solas must believe him a worthy enemy. 

There was another possibility that Solas wanted a chance to parley, or to attempt to convert the Inquisitor to his cause. Solas and Coen had been friends, despite their considerable differences of opinion. Solas didn’t have a great many friends. In large part because he was a genocidal prick. Dorian had wondered about the possibility of corruption. While Solas didn’t appear possessed, it seemed more than a bit strange that someone relatively, if not entirely peaceable could turn so quickly to large-scale killing. He had done some research, but to little avail. There was no wealth of knowledge on the old elves, and Dorian was hardly an expert. 

At least he’d been given nicer accommodations. It followed that if Solas wanted to believe he was in the right, he would avoid excessive cruelty. He would hope. 

For the love of Andraste, let Coen not be stupid enough to walk into Solas’s trap. Dorian bit his tongue. He might die never having set things right, never having tried. He should have sent another letter, pride be damned. 

Suddenly, there was no more time for reparations, and both Coen and himself were probably in mortal danger. If he were to get out of this, there would be no more dawdling, and no more of this long-distance malarkey, he swore of it. It seemed unjust that after all they had done, they might end here. He hadn't ever really believed that he'd never see Coen again, or that the Inquisition was truly dead. Could this be all there was to life? It wasn't much of a finale. 

Dorian was not habitually the praying type, at least not as much as some. But if there ever was a time to pray, it was now. Let Coen stay safe, and if he himself should die, let Coen know he died loving him. 

When had he become such a sap? In his younger days he would have prayed only to die on a clever quip and facing a worthy enemy. Then again, his current prayers were not exclusive to his new ones. 

If Solas was going to kill him, he’d be damned if he let him have the last word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm burning this real slow. The chapter title is referencing, Peggy Lee's 'Is That All There Is?' which is a really great bittersweet kind of song.


	4. An Elf, a Dwarf, and a Human Walk Into a Bar

It was a temperate night, and Varric, Coen and Cassandra were camped alongside the Imperial Highway. Coen’s feet throbbed as though each had a pulse of his own. Their mounts were growing tired and had to be led often. Despite the pain, he itched to keep moving, fearing that every second of delay would eat at Solas’s patience. Though previously he had been looking forward to talking with Cassandra and Varric, the trip was spent largely in silence, almost as if they were holding a sort of vigil. Recently Coen had been walking ahead of the others, not necessarily because he did not want company, but because he felt he could not dawdle a second. Left to his own devices he would walk until he collapsed. He tried to be sympathetic; Varric must be having a hard time. Now and in the days of the Inquisition Varric had done an admirable job of keeping up with the others, but having not nearly as much leg as anyone else it must have been strenuous. 

It was Cassandra who had finally suggested they make camp, “before our feet are reduced to bone”. Coen was tired to the core, but found himself awake hours after the sun had set over the vast, sandy plains. Lying still in the darkness he thought of Dorian’s arms, which once had held him and made him feel impermeable, as though so long as they lay there together they were shrouded in a protective ward no force in Thedas could break. When he finally slept, he dreamt of a great bear with sad grey eyes and a face painted in black, white, and ochre. It seemed to be pleading with him, but he woke before he could make any move towards it.

It wouldn’t be long now until they reached Minrathous. Coen knew there was a fair chance he was walking towards his own demise, but he felt no fear of death. The sooner they made it into the city the better. 

...

Dorian was fighting boredom. He hadn’t seen Solas since he’d been rescued (or captured? Perhaps it would be most accurate to say he had merely been moved. After all, he doubted that Solas had been opportunistic in taking him from the Venatori. Likely it had been arranged for them to take him first, probably by deceit). He doubted that Solas was still in the building. Presumably becoming the harbinger of the apocalypse left one with little free time. Whoever owned this building had eclectic tastes. He ran his fingers over the smooth, waxy surface of the headboard of the bed he was sitting on. Each post of the bed was adorned with the head of a different beast; a lion, a wolf, a bear, and a ram. Their eyes, teeth, and where applicable, horns, were accented with gold paint. It must be an expensive custom job. Either Solas had friends in high places, or he had killed the previous occupants. The rest of the room was similarly ostentatious; a tartan rug depicting a palatial scene of Tevinters feasting, a wall tapestry of knights and animals in procession, a lamp with three feet growing from the base. Dorian had to admit he might have bought some of these things himself, if only to provoke his father. 

He had been attempting to prod the barriers surrounding his prison with magic, but it was no use. Whatever ward it was that blocked his mana hadn’t faltered. He had been waiting for some sort of weakness to present itself, for a moment of vulnerability when Solas’s cronies came to feed him or bring up bathwater. Nothing had come. They were scrupulously careful, pushing plates across the barrier fast and without letting their hands in. He was almost flattered. Solas hadn’t shown much respect for his magic in the Inquisition’s heyday, but he supposed his combat spoke for itself. Not that he was likely to stand against Solas now though, seeing as he’d tapped into some enormous well of power. Dorian hadn’t ruled out some form of possession, although the usual hallmarks weren’t present.   
Really finding out what exactly had happened was second to stopping it, but there was a lot to be said about knowing one’s enemy. 

There was two books left on the cupboard, both penned by, of all people, Varric Tethras. They’d even done a portrait of him on the back of an issue of “Hard In Hightown”. The artist had clearly been a fan, given the generous proportions. That couldn’t have been a coincidence, Varric’s popularity notwithstanding. They were admittedly gripping reads, albeit hardly Dorian’s class of literature. He’d read both books within the first two days of waking, and had absolutely nothing to do but wait. Most of the elves who came by hated him on principle and as such were not keen on conversation. He found himself dozing off frequently and dreaming of the slower days at Skyhold, when he and Coen had stayed in bed through to the afternoon. They’d chat, read, or rest. He liked to watch Coen sleep; he looked so delicate, so warm and comfortable and somehow stately, like a cat sleeping in a sunbeam. What he wouldn’t give to hold him in his arms again, to feel that same strange, careless joy he had felt then. It seemed then, despite the danger they faced everyday, that they had all the time in the world. The thought that they might never have that again made his heart feel waterlogged and swollen. Where was Coen now, he wondered? He had an image of him walking the long road to Minrathous from Orlais, feeling a guilty jolt of hope at the thought. This was not what he should want. This was unreasonable. But really, what was the harm in dreaming a bit longer? 

...

Moving in on Minrathous, he felt the grim surety of a general leading his army on to the plains of war. He, Varric and Cassandra wove through the sea of people amassed at the front of the gates. In the hubbub, Coen had lost all sense of direction, pushing forward until they could reach somewhere quiet and clear enough to find their bearings. Cassandra’s right hand hovered around his shoulder, and her left kept hold of Varric. The tallest of any of them, she peered over the heads of the crowd like a hawk. 

“That way” She nudged Coen to his left. “We can get out of this blasted bazaar.” 

The company was meant to rendezvous with Leliana’s contacts at an inn called “The Long Stable” in the south end of the city. 

“Funny kind of name” Said Varric, adjusting the cuffs of his coat. “Ancestors willing they’ll have a decent bar.” 

They bought a city map from a shop at the outer edge of the market and made their way south. It brought Coen some satisfaction to see that Minrathous hadn’t changed. While his own life had been upturned more than once, the city stood almost as a testament to his old relationship- the same buildings, the same brick, the same stares and snobbishness. Coen had no gauge as to how Dorian and his affiliates had affected the political landscape of the city, but he had heard they’d caused substantial uproar. Every once and a while he’d spot a flag or poster printed with the Lucerni’s emblem, but otherwise Minrathous seemed about as tumultuous as it had ever been. 

After negotiating a few wrong turns and some conflicting directions, the party arrived at the inn a little after midday. Leliana’s agent was slated to meet them at sundown, so they found themselves granted a rare few hours of rest. 

Once their rooms were arranged Coen flopped on the bed gratefully, his feet and back aching with a vengeance. He’d been trying to avoid thinking too much on what would happen when he saw Solas. He’d been trying not to think about anything of any importance at all. It risked developing a headache, and was not especially productive. Worry gnawed at him. The thought of Dorian being dead or in pain affected him with physical revulsion; it brought a bitter taste to his gums and twisted his stomach. All this time they had been apart he had believed in some recessed corner of his heart that they would be reunited. Life without Dorian, or even the fantasy of him, was untenable

Coen stretched his spine and tried to resist the urge to sleep. He would have to make his meeting in a few hours, and would need to eat. If this contact had a promising lead he could be seeing Solas very soon, and he was far from fighting shape. He’d spotted himself in the looking glass earlier and been appalled. He was more haggard than ever. Were it not for his clothes he might have been mistaken as one of the many elven slaves that populated Tevinter. Being an elf and a notable figure in Ferelden had been fraught with challenges, but in Minrathous it was all the more disturbing. The class system was more rigid than he’d ever seen (although Varric had assured him it was “nothing worse than Orzammar”) and he felt like a walking curio. Dorian really did have his work cut out for him. 

...

Walking into the tavern that night Coen didn’t know what to expect. He had conjured an image of a shrouded, shadowy figure speaking in riddles, but the woman that waved him over was dressed in an especially loud azure number and spoke quite plainly. 

“Inquisitor. I have the location and name of the manor we believe Lord Pavus is being held in. It wasn’t difficult to find- in fact you were expressly delivered the message. A woman named Maevaris. I trust you are familiar?” The woman spoke quickly and candidly. They were fortunate enough to find the tavern relatively empty, so there was little danger of being overheard. 

Coen nodded. “We’ve been acquainted.”

“She told us that the leader- an elf named Solas- let her go with instructions to deliver you the address. Naturally we suspect a trap, and while the Divine strongly advises you send wait for further news or send scouts in your stead, she knows you will not do so.” 

Leliana hadn’t lost her sense of humour. “The Divine is correct.” He told the woman. “We’ll leave at dawn.” 

She nodded. “The manor is just outside the bounds of the city. If we make good time, we should be there by noon.” 

Coen was mildly taken aback. “You’re coming with us? It imagine you know that this is a dangerous assignment. Don’t feel compelled to risk your life.”

“I won’t be going inside, but I will be nearby” The woman continued, undisturbed. “The Divine has been working to uncover an incantation which may be useful in halting this Solas’s power, and I will attempt to perform it before you enter. It’s far from a sure bet, and we re lacking some of the artifacts meant to enhance the power of the ward, but the Divine believes it’s worth attempting.”

Coen did not protest. It was kind of Leliana to try and safeguard him, though he was doubtful that this ward would accomplish much at all. He wasn’t thrilled at suddenly acquiring another member to his group; he had recklessly endangered enough people already. 

“I’m sorry” He told the woman. Years of careful diplomacy had taught him the importance of manners. “I don’t think I’ve asked your name.”

“I am Enchantress Helena Calinus. You may call me Helena.” Helena was an older mage, shrewd-looking and wearing her hair in a tight grey knot. After she, Cassandra, Varric and himself had eaten and discussed their route Coen made his excuses and retired. By all rights he should be nervous- there was a fair chance that tomorrow would be his last day among the living- but he felt strangely calm. Whatever awaited him just outside Minrathous was beyond knowing, and if he died tomorrow he would die in defense of someone he loved. It would be honourable. That was enough. He only hoped that fate would have mercy on Dorian, Cassandra and Varric. They had stood for him time and time again, and deserved long and prosperous lives away from the danger he seemed to attract magnetically. 

But whatever he had or hadn’t done to prepare, he would reap the consequences the next day. For now Coen closed his eyes and conjured pleasant memories, easing himself into a long and restful sleep.


End file.
